


When the Bough Breaks

by ArchangelUnmei



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Coping, Cutting, Domestic Violence, Gen, M/M, References to Abuse, Triggers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-30
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 00:44:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/779842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArchangelUnmei/pseuds/ArchangelUnmei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has a breaking point, even Nations. And everyone has their own ways of coping. Sometimes it bothers America that his brother is better at coping than he ever was.</p>
<p>(See notes for full list and explanations of triggers; oddly NedCan is the healthiest relationship here)</p>
            </blockquote>





	When the Bough Breaks

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Canaderp on Tumblr for the NedCan Secret Tulips Exchange. It wandered pretty far away from the original prompt of 'over-protective America', hopefully it's alright. There's also some one-sided America/Canada if you choose to read it that way.
> 
> Willem - Netherlands
> 
> **Possible trigger warnings** for mentions of a mutually-abusive relationship (between France and England), substance abuse (both alcohol and drugs), and self-harm (cutting).

When Matthew finally found Will in May of 1945, he was lying in a bed in a resistance safe house in Apeldoorn. He was exhausted and gaunt, made thin by his people's hunger. Matthew had nothing on hand to immediately offer him except a canteen of water, a few ration bars and cigarettes. There were tears in Will's eyes, joy and relief and pain, and his hands shook so badly that Matthew had to light the cigarette for him.

That memory is burned into Matthew's soul forever; sitting on the edge of a rickety bed with a paper thin matress, Will heavy and bony against his side, smoking and crying silent tears until he fell asleep. 

It's rare for a Nation to fall in love, for real. They _love_ their people, their land, each other, but they do not _fall_ in love. Falling in love _hurts_ , and Matthew remembers being very young and France telling him that for humans, falling in love is possible because they live such short lives. Nations live too long, and love you fall into, you always fall out of as well. Falling in love hurts, because for Nations it always ends. 

And yet, Matthew's heart still turns over every year in spring when Will shows up on his doorstep with a bouquet of tulips from his personal garden and a bottle of wine. He's pretty sure that's love. 

He asks Will once, when they're standing in Major's Hill Park, leaning against a fence and looking out across the river, shoulders just close enough to brush. Will stays quiet for a moment, then shifts closer, his arm sliding around Matt's shoulders and lips just brushing his ear. Matthew feels himself flush, can't help but press into the embrace a little bit himself, and his heart is thudding so loud he nearly misses Will's quiet words. 

"Sixty years is a long time to send someone flowers out of _just_ gratitude, Matt." 

Matthew turns in his arms, catches him in a proper kiss. He can feel Will's heart pounding under his hand and smiles, drawing back just enough to look up at him. 

"I love you too." 

~*~

America and Canada have always been close. 

Even before the European colonizers came, way back before history got written down, Alfred's earliest memories are of playing in the mud of what would eventually be named Lake Ontario with the other little Nation who would eventually be named Matthew. They slept cuddled together at night, in the woods of Michigan and Wisconsin, where the lines between them blurred and sometimes they were more one than two. 

They have always been close, but they have almost never gotten along. Nations don't usually think of themselves in terms of human relationships, but there are times Alfred thinks that 'brothers' really is the best way to describe what lies between him and Matthew. Usually they're okay, though they don't see eye to eye on some things. They hang out to watch hockey and baseball together, meet for coffee when they're both in New York or Toronto or Vancouver. They argue and sometimes outright fight, but if anyone outside the continent threatens one, they can be sure the other will leap to his defence. 

(Except once, and Alfred still doesn't like thinking about it because almost everything about Vietnam still leaves a bitter, sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, especially the cold look on Matthew's face when he said _'No, America, we're not following you into this idiotic war'._ ) 

But still, they look out for each other as much as they can, even if the relationship between their governments has cooled a little in the last decade. That's why Alfred feels like he has to speak up. 

He's never paid much attention to the really small countries in Europe; the ones that aren't England or France or Germany or Italy all tend to sort of blend together. He's lucky that Portugal and Spain just find it kind of funny that he refers to them interchangeably, that Lithuania and Poland are both still weirdly fond of him, and that most of the rest of them think he's too much of an idiot to get really offended anyway. 

He didn't really notice the Netherlands until the Nineties, when he was riding high from the end of the Cold War and the rising internet stocks. But he remembers walking into a meeting room and seeing Canada leaning over to point something out on the papers spread out across the table, with Netherlands close beside him with an arm around his waist and a hand placed _way_ too familiarly on Canada's hip. 

America saw red (not like Communism red, but like weird socialist drug dealer red), and hasn't really stopped since. 

~*~

The last Friday of every month, Netherlands and England get together for a drink. 

They alternate hosting, though more often than not they end up in Amsterdam because they're less likely to get strange looks and pointed questions and, well, it's Amsterdam. They start off in a bar, but after two scotch and sodas (on Arthur's part) and three shots of absinthe (on Will's part), they usually agree to move the party someplace private. 'Party' is a relative term, though, since the whole point of these sessions is that they're a weird form of therapy. 

It began almost by accident back in the Eighties, when their governments were running them both ragged. They've stayed friends ever since that weird period of history when they were technically married, and they ended up in a bar together with Belgium, all three of them roaring drunk and ranting loudly about the unfairness of the world in general and their little corners of it in particular. Things didn't seem quite so dour after that though, or at least they didn't seem quite so alone in their misery, so Arthur and Will have kept up the tradition. Sometimes they manage to actually give each other helpful advice, other times just talking is enough. And sometimes, just getting drunk enough that they don't remember what they said the next morning is fine too. 

"Hey," Will says one night, lounging on the couch of his apartment and working his way through a glass of England's whiskey. "Was I seeing things at the meeting today, or did Francis have a black eye?" 

Arthur stiffens so fast that the ice in his tumbler rattles, but then he sighs and seems to deflate along with the sigh, shoulders slumping as he slugs back the rest of his drink and makes a face at the burn. "Nah, he did. Bloody priss tried to cover it with make-up, too." Arthur can feel Will frowning at him, and without a word he reaches down to untuck his shirt and tug it up to show the healing bruises along his ribs. Will hisses in sympathy, and Arthur shrugs and lets his shirt drop back into place, reaching for the scotch for a refill. 

They sit in silence for another few minutes, until Will ventures to ask, "What happened?" 

Arthur shrugs again, fluid and flushed. "Who the hell knows? I don't even remember who started it." The fact that he isn't automatically blaming Francis raises a few red flags for Will, and he licks his lips, not sure how to proceed. Before he can think of what to say, though, Arthur lets out another sigh, this one oddly softer and more wistful. "Dunno how you do it, Will." 

Will blinks at him, thrown off his train of thought. "Do what?" 

"Keep Matthew," Will's face flushes and he nearly drops his drink, but Arthur's still rambling and doesn't appear to notice. "He's sweet and strong, takes after Francis a lot more than me, thank God. Never had an interest in the boy myself, but what you have with him... Must be nice..." 

Will swallows and sets his glass down, watching Arthur close his eyes with that faint smile on his face, the shadow of a bruise along his jaw. "Arthur..." He stops, because there's really nothing to say to that, and instead finds a blanket to drape over Arthur as he begins to snore. 

~*~

Considering the entire nature of their relationship, it's probably not a surprise that things go to hell during a hockey game. 

The Sens are playing the Bruins, and it's a really close game; tied at the end of the second period. Matthew gets up to get them more beer, and Alfred sprawls on the couch, watching the weird and wonderful Canadian Tim Horton's commercials and only listening to whatever Matthew's saying with half an ear, at least until he hears something that sounds like 'Will' and 'tulips', and then he sits up. "Wait, what?" 

Matthew gives him a bemused look, walking back into the living room with a fresh six-pack of Molson's and a bottle opener in the shape of a beaver. "It's May. The Tulip Festival starts this weekend? I was saying that Will's flying in on Friday, so I won't be at the NAFTA talks. I've been telling you this since February, Al." 

Alfred frowns, reaching to take one of the bottles when Matt offers it to him. "If I was going to ditch NAFTA meetings, Barack would have my guts." 

"Maybe my government and I have more of an understanding when it comes to me having a personal life." Matthew rolls his eyes, starting to look a little exasperated. "Besides, you don't have a boyfriend who sends you so many flowers that it turns into a _national festival_." 

Something weird settles into the pit of Alfred's stomach. "Neither do you." 

"Al, jeez," Matthew gives him a hard look, the one that means he's trying to decide if Alfred is being deliberately ignorant or if he's actually that stupid. It makes Alfred flush a little for reasons he can't quite determine. "I _do_. Will and I have been official for years, you're just awful at picking up hints." 

"You could have told me!" Alfred takes a gulp of his beer to avoid flailing. 

"We like being more low key, especially since we don't have the time to see each other very often." 

Several disparate pieces of information and things he'd wondered about are suddenly starting to slide into place, and Alfred stares at his brother in something like sick horror. "Is this why you always disappear right after UN meetings let out and always turn up the next morning smelling like pot?" 

" _Al_ ," Matthew glares at him, but his ears turn red. Drugs are something the two of them very much don't agree on, and for a long time there's been a standing agreement not to bring them up. But Alfred's on a roll now. 

"And there was that meeting where Netherlands didn't show up after lunch, and Belgium wouldn't stop smirking, and I think I was the only one that noticed you weren't there either and- oh my God, you were having sex in the bathrooms." 

Matthew frowns, hand tightening on his beer. "Actually, we went back to our hotel room because the talks that afternoon were basically going to be you and Germany arguing about the auto industry and neither of us really wanted to sit through that." 

"You _share a hotel room_?" Alfred feels his eyes widen, and for a moment he seriously thinks Matthew might hit him, but he's always had trouble keeping his mouth shut when he has something to say. "Is that safe?" 

Matthew suddenly goes very very still, and Alfred could swear the temperature in the room just dropped by a few degrees. He's reminded somehow that most of Matthew's land is tundra, and out of the corner of his eye he sees that bear that's always hanging around get up and casually amble out of the room. But then Alfred reminds himself that he has a valid point, _dammit_ , and squares his shoulders to meet Matthew's eyes. 

Matthew's voice is very quiet, very _arctic_ when he says, "Care to elaborate on that, Al?" 

Alfred takes a deep breath, but then plunges forward. "I don't like him, Matt, and I don't think he's good for you. He's an old empire, just like England or Spain, and he's done some pretty depraved things in his history." Matthew opens his mouth, but Alfred talks right over him, utilizing his one true skill. "Even today, he hardly lifts a finger for anything unless it makes a profit for him, I hear France bitching about it after EU meetings all the time. He's famous all over the world for his drugs and hookers and kinky sex, and I don't want to see you hurt if it turns out he's just using you. You're better off just leaving Europeans alone and letting them deal with their own shit." He finally runs out of steam, watching in a detatched sort of fascination as Matthew's beer bottle frosts over in his hand. 

"First of all," Matthew's voice is so quiet, Alfred almost has to lean over to hear him clearly, and then realizes that might not be the best idea. "I don't see how it's any of your business who I date in the first place, but I'll humor you. European Nations might be older than you and I, but that doesn't exclude any of us from histories we'd rather forget." He doesn't mention the Trail of Tears or the Underground Railroad, but Alfred flinches anyway. "And as for being a 'bad influence', which seems to be the core of what you're suggesting, the majority of the practices you're seeing as bad are things Will took up after World War II. I know you were a bit too busy gutting Japan at the time to pay attention, but the European theatre was a mess. I was _there_ , Alfred. Will's people were dying, the war was fought back and forth across his land and left him _destroyed_." 

With a sudden chill, Alfred remembers 1860, remembers fields trampled and churned, turned to mud made not with water, but the blood of thousands of men. He hasn't been able to visit Gettysburg since, because all he can hear is the screams of the dead and the dying and the lingering, hanging heavy and haunted around the battlefield. The thought of all his land in that state is enough to make him shudder in horror. "I..." 

"He smokes so he can _sleep_ , Al," Matthew's warming up to his subject, angry in a way he rarely is outside of a hockey rink. He doesn't raise his voice, but there's a particular intensity that Alfred has learned to associate with his brother's temper, and it's enough to get him to hold his tongue and actually listen to what Matthew is saying. "Christ, it's not like Will is the only one! We _all_ have outlets and escapes, we all have 'secrets' that everyone else pretends they don't know about. Denmark drinks himself unconscious on a weekly basis, nevermind Russia and half of Eastern Europe. China and Turkey have been smoking opium since _before_ most of us were even properly Nations. France and England have been screwing each other in that mutually destructive masochism tango of theirs for centuries! And if you think you're being clever by hiding your scars on your thighs instead of your wrists, Al, you're really, really not." 

Alfred swallows hard, resisting the urge to rub his fingers over those scars, since they're hidden by his jeans anyway. Matthew must be psychic, that's the only explanation. Alfred never cuts when there's anyone else around, especially not other Nations. But then he stops, forces himself to actually think about what Matthew is saying. He thinks about the feelings that drive him to dig a knife into his own skin, that welling despair and hopelessness of being pulled in fifty-one directions at once with no end in sight and no hope of getting relief except to bleed and let the endorphins soar. He can imagine how it might be to have another two or three or five hundred years of memories to deal with on top of the stress of current events, and he can almost, sort of, maybe see Matthew's point. "Matt, I...." 

Matthew glares at him, and he shuts his mouth. For once, he can't think of anything to say, anything that might make this better, because even if he sees Matthew's point, he's still not sure he approves. 

The hockey game isn't even over yet, but for the first time Alfred gets up and walks out. 

~*~

Alfred hangs around Ottawa for the rest of the week, though he's careful to stay out of Matthew's sight. He ignores calls from his boss insisting he come back to Washington, and instead sits in the Rideau Centre or Major's Hill Park, watching Canadians walk by. They laugh and talk and joke with each other, and Alfred can almost close his eyes and pretend he's in Buffalo or Cleveland, letting their noise wash over him and quell the pounding in his head, the itch in his thighs from fresh cuts marring the skin. 

On Saturday, he walks the couple miles (or kilometres, whatever) to Dow's Lake and the Tulip Festival. His mood is still pretty black, but it's hard not to smile when he sees the happy young couples holding hands, or the children playing tag around the flower beds. When he comes across a half-circle of people and loiters curiously, he sees an old man in a wheelchair and his stomach does a weird flip. It isn't even conscious thought that draws Alfred closer to listen to what the old man is saying in accented English. 

"...We had so little to give them, but we wanted to help them however we could. I remember my mother used to invite the soldiers to our house for dinner, even though we had barely enough for ourselves. One of the soldiers let me wear his helmet. When I opened my business, I knew I wanted to move to Canada to try and give back, even if it was only a little." 

And Alfred recognizes his accent as Dutch, and moves on. 

He doesn't really have a clear plan or path, just wandering among the flowers. It's so strange, he feels so foreign here, almost like an intruder, even though he lived through the war and the vast majority of the people here did not. But then, Alfred didn't live through _this_ part of the war, as Matthew was so quick to point out. His feet lead him deeper into the park, until he sees a familiar figure silhouetted through the trees. It isn't a conscious decision on Alfred's part to duck into the bushes and hide, but he does. 

Matthew and Will are standing near a bed of white and yellow tulips, looking out across the water of the lake. They're holding hands, just like any other young couple out for a stroll, and as Alfred watches, Will shifts his hand to the small of Matthew's back and leans down to kiss him. 

Alfred's thighs itch, and his eyes prickle, but he can't seem to look away. There's no one else around, Will's not putting on a show for anyone. And no matter what anyone says, Alfred isn't _that_ stupid. Even with the sun in his eyes, he can't mistake the look on Will's face for anything except genuine love, and the tenderness as he strokes his fingertips down Matthew's cheek can't be faked. 

It's weird, how Alfred never realized how much he wanted something until he couldn't have it. 

Matthew goes up on his toes to steal another kiss from Will, and Alfred manages to slip away without being noticed. 

~*~

Matthew doesn't see Alfred again until the next round of UN meetings a few weeks later. 

Alfred looks like he hasn't been sleeping well, though Matthew's probably the only one who notices, since Alfred puts on a bright veneer of good cheer and abundant energy, keeping up appearances like he always has. Matthew bites his lip, debating whether or not to say anything during a break between speakers, when England leans over from his seat. "Matthew, lad," 

Matthew blinks over at his former parent, startled out of his own thoughts. England looks only marginally less tired than America, but then again they all look pretty haggard these days, and Matthew feels very briefly bad that his own life is going pretty well at the moment. "Eh?" 

"Do me a favour and tell the frog-" 

Matthew's stomach turns sour, and he clenches his hands into fists under the table, wrinkling his dress slacks. He glances down the table at Alfred's bright, fake smile, then the other way to where Will is playing tic-tac-toe with Feliks instead of taking notes. He takes a deep breath, then looks Arthur in the eye. "No." 

It's almost comical, how Arthur just blinks at him for a moment. "...Come again?" 

"I said no," Matthew keeps his voice low, though there's a strange, hysterical feeling bubbling up in the pit of his stomach. So many lies and secrets and masks, when they could only be happy if they'd let themselves. All of them. It isn't impossible for Nations to love, he and Will are proving that. "For God's sakes Arthur, just talk to Francis yourself. And try not to swear at him every third word, and maybe spend an evening with him without wine _or_ whiskey and see how that goes for you." 

Arthur's staring at him like he's grown a second head, and Matthew's voice might have gotten a bit louder than he meant to, but he doesn't really care. He pushes back from the table and stands, intending to go to the bathroom and let himself cool down a bit, but suddenly Alfred is there and taking his hand to tug him outside. Matthew stifles a growl, not ready to fight with him again, and _here_ of all places. "Al-" 

"Shut up Mattie," Alfred tugs him out into the hall, and Matthew notices that he's staring down at his shoes rather than at Matthew. "Look, I-" 

And they're brothers, they've always been close. Matthew can see in the slumped line of his shoulders exactly what he means to say. He softens, anger melting away, and reaches out to tip Alfred's chin up to look at him. "...It's okay, Al. Just. Don't do anything stupid like try and beat Will up or anything, okay?" 

Alfred gives him a wry smile. "He'd probably kick my ass." He gives a gusty sigh and runs a hand through his hair. "...I still don't like him. But..." 

Matthew bites down another flash of irritation, makes himself be patient. "But?" 

Alfred meets his eyes again, looks strangely sad for no reason Matthew can name. "But I want you to be happy." 

All of a sudden, Matthew feels warmer than he can remember being in awhile, and all that warmth wells up out of him in a gentle, bright smile. He grabs Alfred in a tight hug, relieved beyond belief. "Okay. Okay, we can work with that." 

Alfred hesitates, then brings his arms up to return the hug, pressing his face into Matthew's shoulder. "Yeah, I think we can."


End file.
